Open Writing

I had seen no horse, but I rounded the corner and there was the pile of fresh, steaming manure: also my grandmother, old Louisa. She had just rushed into the lane with bucket and shovel to scoop up the treasure before anyone else could claim it. It was seventy years ago, but it could have been today.

There are many small windows in my memory through which I see my Grandma. She flashes into view, slim and trim, always in black from top to toe, her grey hair in a bun and a porkpie hat held on with a hatpin if she was out and about. She lived in a Leicestershire village after she was widowed and gave lodgings to the curate of the parish. I was sometimes sent on my own to stay with her, and they were happy and relaxed, slightly indulgent times, when I could eat jelly without feeling guilty, and put a dollop of cream on my pancake without feeling downright sinful. Mother thought the only food really necessary for growing children was bread and butter and a glass of milk. Perhaps I exaggerate a little.

I remember the summer afternoon when Grandma collected the horse manure because my mother happened to be there that day. It was her horrified reaction that imprinted itself on my memory. I knew exactly where the warm droppings would be spread, and why, and I couldn’t think why such a sensible and thrifty action should evoke such disgust. I don’t remember what was said, but Grandma went on shovelling anyway, until it was all in the bucket and heading for the vegetable garden. Grandma had a good capacity for keeping her mouth shut, and conversation only flowed easily when we were alone together.

When I was eight our family unit moved to the West Country, and just before that happened there was a bright sunny day when we were all together at some kind of celebration. It might have been a church fete, or the Sunday School anniversary, but I open my memory window and I know I am standing at the end of a long sunny path, looking and waiting. All the grown-ups are in a group, shoulder to shoulder, pastels and florals, with straw hats and ribbons. Then suddenly, Grandma is coming quickly down the path towards me, and she has something urgent to say. She crouches down so that her eyes are level with mine, and she is trying not to show grief, not to cry. She has to be quick, somehow I know that, she has something to say before anyone sees her. “Will you promise me something ?” she says. And again, “Will you promise Grandma?” Then quickly, quickly, “Will you keep your Daddy’s shoes clean? Will you always keep them polished? Will you do this for Grandma?”

I suppose I nodded. I must have said yes. The window closes and I don’t see her stand up or walk away. But from that second on I kept my promise and my Dad’s shoes were the shiniest in the world. He often did them himself, of course, but I did notice that only he and I had a passion for shoe cleaning. I often wondered what was behind this desperate request for her only son. I’ll ask her one day, when I see her again.

After we had moved - we’re talking no motorways, not much car travel - Grandma’s visits had to be carefully planned, and she had to stay for a couple of weeks, otherwise it wouldn’t have been worth coming. Every year the fair visited our Somerset village and the whole of the long, curving High Street would be closed for a week and given over to the Dodgems, the merry-go-rounds, and the Moonrocket. (Oh, how I loved the Moonrocket, a shining gold ring tilted at a heart-stopping angle, hurtling round to the sound of music from another world.) There were coconut shies and candyfloss stalls, toffee apples and freshly-made doughnuts, and in those far-off days, the anticipation and excitement was as great as for any present-day Notting Hill Carnival.

It was wonderful, and my sister and I were allowed a small amount of spending money for the week. We did, nonetheless, have to go with our parents to navigate the twists and turns of the High Street; it was the same for all the children. No family would have dreamed of letting a child loose to wander about on its own. It was a kind of amiable walkabout in and out of the stalls, with the Methodist families like ours mingling with the Baptists from the chapel on the corner, and nodding and smiling at the Congregationalists who had stretched their legs and walked up the hill from the next hamlet. The Sally Army were always in uniform, of course, and since no-one would have dreamt of missing out on anything, the week was one of conviviality and enjoyment - and, of course, full moneybags for the fairground people. I don’t ever remember it raining, and my sister and I were never able to win anything, not even a teddy bear. Throwing balls at a coconut was a game of chance, and that, in my mother’s eyes, was tantamount to gambling: a cardinal sin, and something to be avoided at all costs.

One year, my Grandma visited when the fair was due. Perhaps my younger sister was ill, but Gran was allowed to take me down the High Street, straight into the jaws of unrestricted pleasure. I’m sure I skipped away, and the clouds of “thou shalt not” were nowhere to be seen as we left the house and walked into the gentle noise of chatter and tinny roundabout music. We spent a happy hour or so, and as we were finding our way back on the homeward run, past the Methodist church, past the fish and chip shop, I saw a little round booth with a round, smiling lady standing in the middle. She was in charge of penny rolling, and all the way round her the red and yellow board, like a big disc, was divided into sections.

I hadn’t noticed it before, and I stopped in my tracks and said, “What’s that for, Grandma?” Of course, that was fatal. The smiling lady had no other customers at that moment, and before we could say a word she had us both rolling our remaining few pennies down the triangular wooden chutes with the hope that they would settle on a square, and not a line. Easier said than done! Then, suddenly, one of us won, and we were off again. Oh what joy, what fun, what a rush of adrenalin.

Grandma rolled down one chute and I stood on tiptoe and rolled down the next one. You’ve guessed, we won from time to time and that gave us an extra boost. Every time a penny went down I was sure I had it under control, then the chagrin to see it land on a line and be swept into the drawer, was quite unbearable.

After about ten minutes perhaps, Gran collected her wits and remembered under whose roof she was sleeping that night, so with great reluctance we stopped. We had both recouped our losses and gained two or three pence, so in a mood of excitement and satisfaction we left the fleshpots and walked the few hundred yards home.

That is a very painful window to open. Grandma was blamed for leading me onto the downward path and I was forbidden to ever do it again. I also had to hand over my meagre winnings. The wages of sin indeed. They went into the collection plate the following Sunday.

It was not long after that summer that the fair stopped coming. I left home, went away to College, and Grandma died while I was away. How I wish I had known more of her; she gave me her name, and now my grand-daughter has it too. No, I didn’t turn out to be a gambler, but if I had had more money I might have done. Just the Grand National, that’s all. I always put money both ways on three horses and I once chose an outsider who won! That was enough to fling wide Gran’s memory window. There we stand, the pair of us, gleefully rolling our heavy copper pennies slowly, carefully, willing them to spin to a stop on the best square of all.

Thank you Gran. We’ll do it again one day.